


Dreamwalk

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universes, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 00:55:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/792168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a different reality, Blair finds his sentinel, but he also discovers there is a fine line between worlds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreamwalk

**Author's Note:**

> In Trance, Jim Ellison says "A lot of us walk in different worlds... ...Sometimes we're not sure which world we're in." In this story, the lines between worlds are hazy. It is up to the reader to decide if this is truly a death story. I choose to believe it is not. This story was first published in Come To Your Senses 15 in Sept. 1999.

## Dreamwalk

by J M Griffin

Author's disclaimer: This particular version of Jim and Blair are all mine. But I owe a great debt to those who created them in the first place.

* * *

Dreamwalk  
By J. M. Griffin 

Journal of Blair Sandburg, May 21st 2000. 

The jungle was steaming hot today, a kind of dripping heat that makes you feel as if you're in a steam bath. I've been here almost four months and this is the first time I've experienced such a high level of humidity. Incacha says it's normal for this time of year. Incacha. What I would have done if he hadn't shown up in the village and deemed me worthy, I don't know. We'd wasted so much time already, over half of our allotted six months, and had not been able to make contact with the natives at the level our research required. Then one day we'd stumbled upon this village near the Chopec Pass and met the shaman and he'd let us in. I didn't understand why he'd been willing to accept us when none of the other tribes we had made contact with had, but I wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so we made camp just outside the village and pulled out our stuff and got down to work. 

Incacha spends a lot of time with us, keeping an eye on us. For all that he allows my anthropological team to interview and interact with the tribe and dig, dig, dig for every custom, social more and ancient ritual to be revealed, most of the time he himself is very close-mouthed. So this morning, when he came to my tent and asked me if I cared to walk with him and talk of the upcoming rite of passage rituals to be held for three of the village boys, I was not about to say no, even if I was right in the middle of organizing a huge stack of notes and data. 

So there we were, walking along as Inchacha explained the dream sleep and the vision quest on which the boys would go, but I was only half listening because I had suddenly remembered my own dream of the night before. I stopped in the path and stood very still as the dream washed over me, enveloping me like the cloying air of the rain forest. 

In the dream, a black jaguar, so dark you almost couldn't see it's spots, walked right into my tent, totally ignoring Jeremy and Erick, the two grad students who are on this expedition as assistant researchers. The big, sleek animal came straight to me and stopped at my bedside. It was so close to my face, I could count it's whiskers. I held my breath as it sniffed me and licked me with it's flat, raspy tongue. That sandpaper tongue stung and when I put my hand up to protect my face, the jaguar gave a low growl that sent my heart racing in fear. As I pulled my hand away, I inadvertently brushed the creature's broad nose and the big cat pulled back and sneezed, which made me laugh. I woke up then, to find I was still laughing. 

Standing on the path, I found I was smiling at the memory. Incacha was watching me intently, and I met his observant eyes somewhat hesitantly. 

"What did you dream, Tarikanki?" He has called me that from the beginning, but never offered to explain what it meant. I asked some of the village children and, from what they said, I suppose the best translation is "seeker," but they averted their eyes when they spoke, so there must be more to it than they are telling me. I let it drop, though, understanding Incacha would tell me if and when he was ready and not a moment before. 

Besides, I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to tell him about the dream. As I said, Incacha is shaman of this Chopec tribe, and he sometimes sees much more than I want him to. This dream seemed special and a part of me wanted to harbor it within me. So I stood for a time, there on the path, trying to decide what to say. He stood beside me, waiting patiently, and in the end my own talkative nature won out and I told him. Not surprisingly, the tribesman did not comment. Incacha is a man of secrets and insight, he doles them out equally with a sweet enigmatic smile, the same smile he gave to me this morning as his gaze swept around the perimeter of the area as if looking for something. 

"I wondered when he'd come," he said quietly. 

I was so startled, I didn't even ask what on earth he was talking about. 

May 24th 2000 

Today is my thirty-first birthday. I spent most of the morning meditating, knowing Naomi, my mother, would be doing the same thing, where-ever she might be. I haven't spent my birthday with her since I turned sixteen and enrolled in Rainier University to start my college course work, but she once told me she always meditated on my birthday, giving thanks for my life intertwining with hers. So I always take the time to do it too, thanking the powers that be for a mom that could love and let go to allow her son to wander the world. 

I got to meditate alone for once, which is unusual, because we have an unwritten code that none of us be left alone, as it simply isn't safe. Sue Chambers, the anthropologist who is collaborating with me on this grant, took Jeremy, Erick and Mark, our photographer, with her into the village to observe some ritual preparation. Sue knows me well and understands acceptable risks, so this morning she gathered the team and left without a word, the three hours alone being her birthday gift to me. 

Everyone back at Ranier thinks Sue and I are an item, but we aren't. Her association with me masks her real affair with Mark Cavers, a man twelve years her junior and a teaching assistant, a big no-no. But Mark, at twenty-six, is way ahead of the curve, certainly way beyond where I was at age twenty-six. That was the year I finished my interesting, but lackluster, doctoral dissertation and joined Eli Stoddard on his Borneo expedition. 

Going with Eli was a good move and I really grew up during those two years under his tutelage. He taught me a lot about anthropology (I thought I knew it all, back then) and about myself, too. We were lovers for most of those two years, but back in the States he'd gone his way and I'd gone mine and I haven't seen him now in three years. 

Anyway, there I was, sitting cross-legged on my cot, meditating peacefully, when the jaguar sauntered into my tent. I looked at him, not at all scared this time (he was so beautiful and sleek and powerful, I could hardly breathe) but then I blinked and when I opened my eyes, instead of a jaguar, there stood a man. I gasped. Without a word, the man stalked over to me and held a finger to his lips, pressing against my mouth with his hand. So close, he smelled of musk and another spicy, pleasing scent, which Incacha had identified to me as ubara root. 

The big man moved his hand away, closed in and kissed me. For a moment I froze in shock, but it all felt so right -- the press of his lips against mine, the heat of his body as he hovered over me, I found myself opening my mouth and kissing back. It was powerful and urgent and ridiculously intoxicating. 

He ended the kiss and shifted back a step, regarding me closely. Dressed in olive drab pants and nothing else, he was like the cat, was all smooth sleek muscles and restless heat. I had opened my mouth to speak, to ask what he wanted, when he stepped in close again. In one swift move, he leaned down and swept me from the bed and suddenly I was on my feet beside the cot. When I made no protest, he took my hand and, with a nod of his head toward the door, indicated I should go with him. And, without a thought toward my safety, I did. 

He took me, in the end, to his camp. It was small and spare, the hut similar to those of the Chopec. He grabbed my hand (he had released me as we walked through the jungle) and ducked inside. I went after him, without a sound of protest. Sunshine slanted in through the window, illuminating his lair. It, too, smelled of ubara. I looked around. There was a sleeping pallet in one corner and an old, very weather-beaten, army issue wooden box against a wall and nothing else. 

He let go of my hand and stood looking at me as if waiting for something. With a start, I realized it was for permission. I didn't speak, I didn't comment. I knew what I was here for. Maybe I was in some kind of weird meditative state. Maybe someone had slipped something into my breakfast drink. I didn't know, but for once I had no questions and wanted no explanations. I wanted what I knew he wanted. So I nodded once, sharp and swift. He took in my consent, watching me for a second more and then he was standing a hair's breath from me, sniffing me, scenting me as the panther had done three nights before. He must have liked what he smelled, because he gave a soft growl and wrapped his arms around me in a tight embrace. 

I could feel his body hard against my own and my penis leaped in approval. He gave a breathy laugh then, and I knew he could feel my body's reaction even through his heavy fatigue pants. He kissed me again, less aggressively, so I opened my mouth and pressed the issue, showed him that I was all for this, whatever this was. No reservations, no holds barred. He pushed me back, toward the pallet of fronds and blankets, and down we went onto the sweet smelling pile. 

He licked my ear, tonguing my earrings, making me gasp. Then he ran his tongue down to my collar bone where he stopped, my shirt hampered his journey. I sat up and pulled off the offending garment. His chest was bare, of course, and the feel of his hard, slightly sweaty body pressed against mine was mind-boggling. I've had male lovers many times. Why all of this was so incredibly awesome, so infinitely passionate and at the same time, blurry around the edges with an odd unworldliness, I cannot now, and could not then, explain. 

When he grasped my hips, entering me with one smooth stroke, I almost came with the exquisiteness of that penetration. His sweat dripped on me, and his face, lean and strong jawed, was so very hungry as he looked down at me and slowly withdrew, only to plunge into me again, I thought perhaps I'd pass out. But I didn't and he continued to move with me, in and out, slow and controlled and hot, hot, hot. Had I died and gone to heaven? I wondered nonsensically as I arched and came, howling like an animal. He climaxed too, without any word, just a deep grunt of satisfaction that I heard in my head all the rest of the day. 

I fell asleep in his arms, after, and woke to find him gone. I got up and rather blearily started back to the camp. Stupid thing to do, to walk in the jungle alone, but about halfway back I felt something bump against me and looked down to find the black jaguar at my side, his hot, ink-dark fur reassuring beneath my fingertips. He walked all the way with me and stopped at the entrance to the camp. He looked up at me, then gave a lazy yawn, licked his wide, black-edged cat lips and vanished. 

June 2nd 2000 

The ritual of passage was last night. It was the first ritual of this type ever to be witnessed by outsiders, Incacha told me. We were honored. We were awed by the immensity of it, the grandeur of the celebration. The entire tribe participated, chewing the same herbal concoction as the boys to better share their entry into manhood. I took some to analyze, rolling it between my fingers and sniffing. It had the same grassy scent as marijuana and I fiercely wanted to try it, but Sue shot me a look and I knew she'd have my balls if I did. So I just wrapped it in a leaf and shoved it into my pants pocket. 

And here I sit holding it. Wondering if I have the guts to chew it. I keep thinking it will bring the soldier back -- the one from my birthday meditation. I haven't seen hide nor hair of him since that day. I can't find his camp either. The jaguar, on the other hand, comes nightly and sleeps by my cot. The others never see him. 

June 7th 2000 

This afternoon Incacha was at our camp and, standing on the rug by my desk, he bent down and picked up a tuft of black fur. 

"Enquiri," I heard him say very, very softly. And "Sentinelmi." 

I wanted to shout at him and ask questions, but somehow I held back. Somehow, I knew that he would not tell me anything, that I was on my own in this. 

"Come, Tarikanki. Come walk with me." Incacha said finally, when I was about to burst with unasked questions. We walked a long time and he didn't say a word. He stopped at a stream to drink and when I lifted my head from taking my fill, there he was. 

Not Incacha. The soldier. He smiled at me and I noticed his eyes were same clear blue of the vast sky. 

We made love there by the stream, mindless of anything but each other, exploring and savoring, devouring and being devoured, finally collapsing in a tangled heap. In the aftermath, I fought the sleepiness that settled over me, not wanting to fall asleep and wake to find him gone. But in the end, I did and awakened to Incacha's smiling face. He touched my cheek and I suddenly realized he'd never touched me before. It felt like a mother's caress and it made me wonder what he'd seen. I opened my mouth to ask, but the shaman smiled and gave a tiny negative movement, so I shut my mouth again. 

By the time we made it back to camp, it was late and Sue was almost hysterical with worry. She didn't confront me right away, but I wasn't surprised when she showed up at my tent door a while later. As usual, she didn't beat around the bush, but came right to the point. 

"Blair, what's up with you. Where did you go? You broke the rule about going off without saying something. I know, I know." She waved a hand at me. "That rule is mostly for our assistants, but.... Well, I'm worried about you. You're acting so oddly these days. Have you been chewing Incacha's dream leaves after all?" She smiled when she said that last bit, to take the sting away, but I could see it was a real concern. 

"No, I haven't. I promise you that." I assured her. When she nodded, I went on. "I'm sorry, Sue. I'm.. I... ah..." Shit, what could I say to her? _I dreamwalk with a black jaguar without any help from hallucinogenics. I'm fucking an American soldier who doesn't speak to me and no one else sees?_ That would hardly go over well. So I said, "I'm just sort of homesick, I guess. I can't explain it. I..." 

But she smiled, saving me from more stupid lies. "Okay, Sandburg. I hear you. Well, we have five more weeks and then we'll be out of here. You'll just have to work a bit harder. That will shake off this funk you're in." She pasted on a smile and changed the subject and we talked about the village and how to best use our remaining time here. But I caught her looking thoughtfully at me several times during our conversation, a questioning look that said _What's really wrong, friend, you can tell me._ But I knew I couldn't. 

July 1st 2000 

I don't have time in the day for everything I want to do and still keep up my personal journal. We are feverishly recording as much of the daily life and routines of the Chopec as possible. We have until the middle of the month and then we are out of here. I love it here and I have this feeling it will be very hard to leave. I spend most of my time with Incacha these days. He has finally opened up and started talking to me. The stories he tells are amazing. He's like the tribe's bard. He knows the history of the Chopec from day one. 

My nights are what are weird. If I close my eyes for even a minute the jaguar is there. Members of the tribe have seen him too and they talk of him with great reverence, calling him "Sentinelmi." This word doesn't sound like Quechua and I'm beginning to think it is, in truth, an English word they've adapted for their own use. Sentinel, you know, watchmen, guard, sentry. Sentry - soldier. The jaguar is a link to my soldier. I often see the animal without seeing the soldier, but I never see the soldier unless the jaguar has come before. 

I haven't said a word to anyone, but the villagers sometimes whisper (behind their hands to be polite) when they see me coming. They still call me tarikanki on occasion, but lately they have dropped that and they call me punuki killanki. It's one of the names they use for Incacha, though it's not the word for shaman. The literal translation is "one with the moon," but once again I know I'm not getting the true gist of it and that makes me nervous somehow. 

Everything is all twisted up inside me and some nights I lie awake thinking, trying to straighten things out in my head, feeling I'll never get to sleep. And then I hear the jaguar scream deep in the forest and I am down for the count. 

The jaguar haunts my nights, but the soldier comes to me by the light of day. Sometimes I suspect he is a ghost, but he is real, solid flesh, so he can't be. He holds me, makes bruises in his enthusiasm, leaves bite and passion marks on my skin. I mark him too, with bites and, one wild afternoon, scratches. We come together with an intensity of purpose that scares me. I try not to show it here in camp, but this strange feeling of living two lives, living between two worlds, is beginning to get to me, and I know I've become jumpy and cross. Sue reamed me out about it last night. She wears a puzzled frown around me these days. We are all tired of each other's company. 

July 12th 2000 

We leave in five more days. We are trying our best to wrap things up, to get done in our two months, if not what we could have done if we'd had six months with these people, at least what we might have done in three. Everyone is making notes, recording thoughts and ideas, scribbling last minute impressions, winding things up the best they can. Sue's computer with the incredibly long lasting battery cratered three days ago. I'd kill for a working laptop, mine didn't even make it past the second month. We are all tired of the bugs, the moist humid air and the constant threat of deadly indigenous snakes. The natives go barefoot and we wear boots. It's a survival thing, even Incacha approves. 

I normally meet the shaman at the riverside, where we sit and talk long hours. Today, I sat and waited for him, but Incacha never came. Instead, my soldier appeared. He walked out of the forest so quietly, if I hadn't seen him do it, I would never have known he was there. 

He smiled at me and took me by the hand and led me to his hut. He hadn't taken me there since our first time together, so I was kind of surprised. I did as I always do, chattered at him as we walked. He always listens, smiles and nods, but he never speaks. I'm not sure if he can't or just won't. It gets to me sometimes, but I try not to dwell on it. 

Today, our love-making was deliciously slow; I held his strong, muscular body against mine, trying not to think it might be for the last time. In the end, I got really wild and rode him to a cresting climax that left us both gasping for breath. Then, as he held me, I began to sob. 

"I'm leaving." I told him brokenly. "I'm leaving. Can't you come with me? Please, please, we'll find a way." 

He held me tightly, soothed me with kisses and, later, a gentle massage of my scalp. As I fell asleep I thought I heard a voice. 

I thought I heard him say, "I love you." 

September 1st 2000  
Cascade, Washington. 

I haven't had the heart to write since I got back to the U. S. Hell, I haven't had the heart to write since the day we left the Chopec to head for Lima. 

On our last day at the camp, it was Incacha who took me to the hut. I hadn't seen my soldier since we had made love four days before. The jaguar still came at night, but that was all. We approached the hut solemnly. I had figured out where we were headed, but I couldn't understand the shaman's closed off look. We had never discussed my soldier, though I'd felt all along Incacha knew. But as we neared the clearing, he turned left instead of right. We walked until he stopped. Standing beside him, I saw there on the jungle floor seven graves. Each was marked with a wooden slab that held a printed name. Judging from the faded names scrawled there, the graves were several years old. I eyed them warily, wondering what it all meant. Before I could formulate a question, Incacha urged me on. Next, he led me to the wreckage of a helicopter. It had the markings of the United States Army. I wasn't surprised. I figured Incacha was showing me my soldier's riddle, the unspeakable past that he could not put behind him. 

Finally, the shaman led me to another grave. This one was marked as the Chopec marked their graves, with a small cairn of rocks at the head. 

Incacha spoke. "Here lies your soldier." 

I stood staring at him, totally unable to comprehend what he was telling me. 

"No," I whispered. "No." 

Incacha simply looked at me. "He waited long for you, but not long enough. His heart gave out two moons before you arrived," he explained quietly. 

I fell to the ground and wept then, but I don't know what I was crying for, because I was still very much in denial. 

I staggered to my feet. "NO!" I screamed in Incacha's face. "No. He's real. He's alive, god damn it." I ran then, pelting through the jungle like a fool until I got to the hut. I threw myself on the pallet where my soldier and I had last made love. "No. No and no and no." 

I wept and screamed and cried myself hoarse. And then my eyes fell on the box -- the wooden army trunk I'd noticed on my first visit there. I knee-walked over to it, too tired from my ranting and raving to try and stand. Slowly, I opened the box. The first thing I saw was a ball chain with a loop of dog tags. I picked them up and, with shaking fingers, counted them. Seven. They held the same names as the seven graves. There was something else, a shredded army fatigue shirt. I picked it up and held it to my face. It smelled of ubara root. 

He'd always come to me bare-chested. I'd wondered about that, now I had my answer. Or did I? What did I really know except I'd been making love to a ghost these past two months. Pain gripped my heart and bent me double and I sobbed bitterly into the cloth. My clutching fingers touched something in the left breast pocket. Carefully, I removed my prize. It was an eighth dog tag. It bore the inscription: Ellison, James J., US Army, Serial number 4752673. 

Finally, my lover had a name. And I had nothing. 

September 12th 2000 

I found this fantastic loft apartment today. It's really too pricey, but I think I'm going to take it anyhow. If I rent to own, I might just be able to manage the payments. But I can't move in until October 1st and that absolutely kills me because, while I was standing there in the loft (with the realtor, no less,) I heard the jaguar scream. 

Back in Peru, the jaguar always sounded fierce, powerful and, somehow, comforting. Here in Cascade, it sounded forlorn. 

I'm crazy, I suppose, to rent a place that's too expensive because I had a hallucination while I was there. But then, I've spent the last two months wondering if I was crazy, anyway. When I got back, a part of me wanted to cut myself off from the world, hide out while I licked my wounds. But there was so damn much to do, assembling and transcribing all our data, trying to put all our observations and experiences in some coherent and cohesive order, not to mention the task of writing it all up for publication. I did my best to be busy every minute, so I wouldn't have time or energy to think about what I had experienced and what I had lost. And it worked, because until today in that loft apartment, I had blocked out that part of my trip to Peru. 

Anyway, Sue and I are in final draft stage of the article, now. The staff at Anthropology Today began to salivate the moment they got a glimpse of Mark's photographs of the Chopec people. They want the article yesterday, but are willing to wait. They know Sue and I from our work on the write up of Eli Stoddard's Borneo expedition. 

The other thing is, Sue and I have a preliminary promise of funding from the Margaret G. Bilson Foundation. We have a meeting with the foundation's vice president in charge of funding (or whatever) tomorrow. Sue made all the arrangements, but she says I have to do all the talking. That's no problem, except she is insisting I wear a suit and tie. She says a sports coat is not enough. I caught her eyeing my hair in the office today. I didn't say a word, I just shook my head "no." So she sighed and "suggested" I ditch my earrings. I told her I'd tie back my hair and leave my earrings off, but that is it. I'm not going to cut my hair. My soldier liked it too much. 

September 30th 2000 

The guy who owns the loft is going to let me have it for 3 months at a reduced price! Yesterday, Sue and I got word that our grant was extended AND that the Bilson Foundation would back us at the same time. That means we're going back. Man, I'm so excited I can't hold it in. Sue and Mark and I went out to eat together to celebrate and that put the cap on what started out to be a lousy day and ended up being a really great one. 

This morning, it dawned on me that I wouldn't be able to go through with the rent to own deal on the loft, so I called the realtor to let him know. When I explained the problem he referred me to the owner, saying the guy had decided he really didn't want to sell the place, but he couldn't bring himself to renege on the deal. 

I ended up going to meet the guy at his office, and, since he's the captain of Major Crimes for the Cascade P.D., that meant I had to show up at the police station. I'm not a criminal or anything, but Naomi's teaching that all cops are pigs runs deep. So it was sort of a tough assignment I'd set myself up for, and I was really nervous. I mean, I know I'm a college professor and all, but even in a scholarly grey sport coat, I could double as a neo-hippie punk. I wasn't sure how well this would go over with Captain Simon Banks. 

It turned out the guy was okay, kind of a stuffed shirt, but okay all the same. What really freaked me out was the place itself. I took the elevator up to the seventh floor and walked into what they call "the bull pen" and I had the strangest feeling of deja vu. Like I'd been there before -- in another life or something. The feeling was so strong it really spooked me. 

This tall, black guy with a big smile and a gap between his front teeth greeted me as I came in. He must have thought I was some kind of nut case, because I walked by a desk and stood stock still and this feeling of I don't know loss, I guess, washed over me. It was truly eerie. Anyway, the black guy just chalked it up to nerves or something, because he gave me a wink and a grin and pointed out the captain's door. I shook myself and went on in. 

It turns out the captain's son has decided to quit college and go to the police academy and he wants to live in the loft. Banks is insisting the kid stay through this semester, but come January, well, the loft is in a pretty good neighborhood and.... 

I let him off the hook finally and told him it turned out I was leaving for Peru January 6th so I couldn't buy the place anyway. The captain stood up (man, he's tall, at least 6'5") and crossed over to the window to look out at the landscape of office buildings. Then he turned back to me and offered me the place for $800 a month for the next three months. He made me promise to be out by January 2nd , which is fine by me as I can always camp out in my office those last few days. 

Now all I have to do is wait until Friday and I can move in. I'm not sure if I'll be able to sleep until then. 

October 2nd 2000 

The black jaguar came last night. After all the waiting and wondering, it was kind of anticlimactic. It was after midnight and I was lying there in the dark trying not to think, trying not to anticipate and, actually, I fell asleep. When I woke sometime later, there he was, gazing at me from where he was lying on the floor at the foot of the bed. I'd like to say I spoke to him and he explained the mysteries of the world to me, but it didn't happen that way. I grinned at him and turned over and went back to sleep and woke to find a whisker on my pillow. That has to be what it was. It surely wasn't there before I went to sleep. I can only hope that the jaguar continues to come in the night. If he does, maybe my soldier will come to me by day as he did when I was in Peru. I know, I'm crazy to even think it, but I can't help myself. 

November 15th 2000 

Last night, the Bilson Foundation held a reception and Sue and I had to attend a command performance for us, as we owe them big time for the funding. So there was no way to say no. I had to rent a tux. I could have brought a date, but there wasn't anyone to bring along. I haven't even thought about dating since I returned from Peru. 

This is not my usual style, as Mark felt compelled to point out to me last night. He even asked me if celibacy was now the name of the game. Sue laughed at his cracks, but when he went to get her some champagne, she cleared her throat and leaned in close. 

"Blair, if you need someone to talk to, well, you know my door's always open." 

I muttered a confused thank you and pretended to see someone I _had_ to talk to. I made tracks across the room and ended up gate-crashing a group of company big wigs. So there I was feeling really stupid when John Dowling, the VP we had made our pitch to, turned to me and smiled and said he wanted to introduce me to someone. He caught the attention of an older, rather lantern-jawed, gentleman in a tux and introduced him to me as the foundation's president, Mr. William Ellison. 

It was everything I could do not to let my jaw drop, because according to the computer check I'd run on James J. Ellison, this was my soldier's father. I shook the guy's hand and bit my tongue hard to keep back the million inappropriate questions I had for the guy. I must have had a weird expression on my face because he asked me if I was feeling all right and I gave a shaky laugh said something stupid about being fine. I just could not get my brain in gear. I wanted to grab this stern looking character and shake him till his teeth rattled and beg him to tell me all about his son when he'd left for Peru, why he'd been sent there, what kind of boy my soldier had been, hell, what kind of man he'd been. But I could only stand there and gawk and make awkward conversation, and finally Sue came up, making charming small talk and saving my sorry ass. Soon after, I escaped and got out of there fast. 

I went home and went to bed. I woke up in the dead of the night to find the jaguar licking my cheek, its tongue warm, raspy, painful, and unbelievably comforting. I cried then and the big cat stayed by my bedside, lapping at my tears. 

In less than two months I'll be back to Peru, back to the Chopec. And when I get there I don't plan to ever leave again. Does that sound like nonsense? It may be, but it is also the truth. If I go back and find my soldier waiting for me, I'm gonna stay forever. 

January 2nd 2001 

All my things are packed and ready to go in boxes all around the loft. I am sitting in a lawn chair out on the balcony. For some reason, even though I am incredibly excited about heading back to the jungles of Peru, I am loath to leave this apartment. 

The kid who is moving in came by yesterday. His name is Daryl. He had some boxes he wanted to leave. I'd done most of my packing, but all of the tribal masks were still up. Daryl started asking me questions about them and we ended up talking for about an hour. 

I'm going to leave the masks up for him. They would just have to go into storage and I'd rather they be out where someone can see them. I don't know, I guess I just like the idea of leaving a little part of me in this place. I don't have a clue why the jaguar shows up here or why the soldier doesn't, but I know I feel safe and protected in the loft. 

Every once in a while I get that weird intense feeling of deja vu that I experienced at the police station. I'll walk in the door to the loft and the kitchen will be redolent with the smell of tomato sauce and herbs and the feeling will hit me. I guess the guy next door is making spaghetti, but why it smells so strongly in my kitchen, I don't know. There is a lot I don't know. 

I've read everything I could get my hands on about the Peruvian tribes, folk tales and monographs, as well as, archeological and anthropological journal articles galore. None of them have given me any answers about my soldier. I think there is a clue in the term the Chopec took to calling me: punuki killanki, or the longer form of it, punukiuhu killankiyoqta. This last bit translates to "dreamwalker" or, rather, as there is no word for dream in Quechua, "one who walks inside the moon mist." 

Still, I can't accept that my soldier is a ghost. A ghost would have come to me here in Cascade. I mean ghosts aren't bound to one part of the world, are they? He didn't feel like a ghost, he felt solid, real, he felt magnificent... 

I ache to touch him again, and if I get to touch him, I know I won't be able to leave him again. He might not be able to join me in my world, but I can do my utmost to join him in his. 

January 16th 2001 

The jungle is warm and beautiful. I am lying here in my soldier's hut. I tried to pretend I had come to be part of the team, to do research on the Chopec, but the moment I arrived at the village, I gave up pretending. 

Incacha strode up to me and embraced me in the center of the village. "Punuki killanki" he murmured in my ear, "you have come home." 

I knew right then my soldier had waited, was waiting. The scream of the jaguar filled my ears and I staggered at the power of it. Sue shot me a look, but I ignored her completely. 

"Yes," I told Incacha. "I'm home." I turned from him then, from them all, and walked into the jungle in the direction of my soldier's hut. 

He's here with me now, holding me in his arms as I write this. He is warm and corporeal and I don't know how, but I'm going to stay with him. I write this for you, Sue, so you know that I wasn't eaten by some jungle beast. And so you'll know I accept whatever happens with an open and willing heart. 

Signed Blair Sandburg. 

July 30, 2027  
Daryl Simon Banks Jr. recording. 

I can't believe I am really here, deep in the jungles of Peru. We are two weeks into this anthropological expedition and I still can't take it all in. I just can't get over the fact that I was asked to join this group, it is such an honor to be asked to go on one of Professor Chambers expeditions. This small tribe of Chopec are the last tribe of the Peruvian jungle and our goal is to record the way these people live and work and play and compare it with a study done previously by Prof. Chambers and her colleague, Dr. Blair Sandburg, whose disappearance over twenty-five years ago is the worst kept "secret" of this expedition. 

The weird thing is that Dr. Sandburg is one of the reasons I'm here. By some kind of strange coincidence, my dad met him a long time ago. I grew up on stories of his one hour conversation with my dad and the mystery of his disappearance in the jungles of Peru. He gave us all those tribal masks that hang in our house even now. I suppose that is why I chose anthropology as a course of study. I mean, how can you not be interested in people and cultures when your home is decorated with their artifacts? 

Today, the rain forest is so humid one can scarcely breathe, but it doesn't seem to bother me like it does the others. Everyone else elected to stay at the camp and work on the data gathered and begin comparing it with the information gathered on the professor's earlier expedition. But I was stir crazy, so I started out on a little hike on my own. Something, some hazy sense of purpose, drew me fairly deep into the jungle, until I realized I would have been totally lost if not for my personal tracking devise. I was about to head back when I came to this small, run-down hut. 

I'm inside the hut as I record this. Looking around, I see a small army issue wooden trunk tucked in one corner. Opening it, I find a collection of dog tags, an old, darkly-stained shirt, and a slim, leather-bound journal. 

The date on the first entry reads May 21st 2000. And, believe it or not, it seems to be by Blair Sandburg. I guess I should take the journal back to camp right away and give it to Dr. Chambers, but I want to read it first, so I've settled down on the ground outside the hut to do just that. 

Suddenly, there is a strange stillness, an almost reverent hush to the jungle, and, just now, I heard a jaguar scream. Maybe the heat is getting to me, but the hut seems full of whispers. 

I hear, "Yes, Enquiri. Yes, Jim, yes." And a deep low sound of a man's pleasure. 

And then another masculine voice says. "I love you, Blair." It resounds in the humid air and seems to hang there, and the joy contained in those words is indescribable. 

Then I hear one more word and it pours out in a hiss, as if a cat were speaking... 

"Always." 

FINIS 

(Special thanks to Paulette of the Texas Tribe for her help with the Quechua translations.) tarikanki  <one who believes/finds(the lost)> punuki killanki <one with the moon> punukiuhu killankiyoqta <one who walks inside the moon mist>


End file.
